Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

Charles pushed on the door of his uncle’s study with his back, keeping the tea tray balanced in his hands. From within the room, his uncle called out in a weak voice.

“Ah, Molly. Just in time. I—”

Charles gazed upon his beloved uncle’s face for the first time in three years. Christ Almighty. Charles couldn’t breathe. He took a deep breath, forcing a smile. “Hello, Uncle.”

Mr. Thomas Selby, curate of Finchley, was once a virile man; tall and broad shouldered, with a full head of walnut brown hair. That’s how Charles saw him in his mind. The man sitting in his uncle’s favorite reading chair was a ghost. Pale and balding, frail, watery-eyed. Damn, but the cancers eating away at him were working fast.

Uncle Selby cracked a weak smile. “Charles? Oh, my dear boy. My sweet, Charles. Are you really here?” He tried to rise from his chair, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t get up,” Charles said, quickly crossing the room. “Let me come to you, sir.”

His heart pounded, praying his uncle would accept this visit for what it was and not pester him about the past. Charles had put it resolutely behind him. He only wanted to focus on the here and now, on his uncle’s comfort in his dying days.

Uncle Selby sank back with a heavy sigh. “Oh, Charles. Whyever are you here?”

Charles set the tea tray down on the table nearest his uncle’s chair, fighting his anxiety. “I came to see you, sir. I finally had time to get away as I’m between postings.”

“Yes, I got your last letter,” Uncle Selby replied. “Vicar of Bredbury. That’s quite an honor. You’ll do well there, I’m sure.”

Charles sat in the empty chair next to him, handing his uncle a cup of tea.

Uncle Selby took it with shaking hands and a murmured ‘thank you.’

The two men sat in silence and Charles let his eyes rove about the room. It was exactly as he remembered it—the crisp white walls, the peaked windows with their foggy glass, his uncle’s massive writing desk, two walls of shelves thick with books. A happy blaze crackled in the hearth, warming the space.

“Your brother is doing well?” Uncle Selby said at last.

Charles set his cup back on its saucer. His elder brother David left Finchley as soon as he was able. He was a military man and had been stationed in the East Indies for the last seven years. “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Charles replied. “David was never one much for writing home. If you’ve heard from him in the last two years, you will know more than I.”

“He wrote a fine note just this summer,” Uncle Selby replied, glancing around at the tidy stacks of letters and sermon notes that always littered his sitting area. “I have it here somewhere. Oh, damn—” His shaky hands fumbled the cup, and he nearly tipped the contents into his lap.

Charles shot out a hand. A few drops of hot tea splashed onto his fingers. “Easy on, sir.”

Uncle Selby chuckled, setting the cup aside. Before he could speak again, the door creaked open, and Molly entered with another tray.

“Wasn’t this a nice surprise?” she called, bustling forward to serve them warm, buttered toast with blackberry jam. “Master Charles nearly gave me a fright appearing on our doorstep and—heavens,” she laughed. “Just listen to me. ‘Master Charles’ and all. You’re fine Mr. Bray now, aren’t you, sir,” she said with a fond smile. “I do know my manners. Don’t let Mr. Selby tell you otherwise. But old habits die hard.”

Charles returned her smile. “You may call me ‘Master Charles’ if it suits you, Molly.”

“But you are Mr. Bray now and have been since the moment you left for Cambridge,” she replied. “It will take some getting used to, but I’ll manage it in the end.”

Uncle Selby surveyed her over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Ahh…I see. You wrote to him.”

Molly straightened from adding logs to the fire. She turned, hands on her hips. “Are you accusing me of meddling, sir? Tis not my place to write to young gentlemen, ordering them about the country.”

Uncle Selby chuckled. “My dear Molly, you could teach the Fates something of meddling.”

She huffed. “And if I did, sir? I would have done nothing wrong. You missed Master Charles, and it is your right to have family close at a time like this. I’ll not apologize for calling him home.”

“I wanted to come, Uncle,” Charles added. “This visit was long overdue. I was glad of Molly’s letter, and I am glad to be here now.” He reached over, taking his uncle’s hand.

“See?” Molly said with a huff. “And it’s Christmas, sir. Master Charles ought to be home where he belongs at Christmas. I did nothing wrong.”

Uncle Selby gave her a warm smile. “I don’t deserve you, Molly Evans.”

She blinked, her bottom lip quivering as her gaze fell on the hand that held tight to Charles. “Well then…I’ll just be in the kitchen.” She bustled away, shutting the door behind her.

The men sank back into the silence, Charles still holding tight to his uncle’s hand.

“I never thought to see you again,” Uncle Selby murmured. “Not in this place. Not so long as…” He quieted, leaving the rest unspoken.

Charles stiffened, his breathing shallow. His uncle knew everything about his past. There was not a single secret kept between them—not from a lack of trying on Charles’s part. His uncle just saw him.

Charles and David lost both their parents in the same year. The war took their father, and a flu took their mother six months later. At ten and twelve years old, they were dropped at Uncle Selby’s door. As their mother’s only brother, he was their nearest relation. He took the boys in, making his meager allowance as a curate stretch to cover two more mouths.

The Corbin’s had been heaven sent, covering officer training for David and Cambridge for Charles. He’d graduated with his divinity degree three years ago, which was the last time he’d set foot in Finchley. Since then, he’d served as a curate in churches from Cornwall to Manchester.

Not that Charles had any great connection to the Church, or a strong calling to evangelize. In fact, speaking from the pulpit was his least favorite part of the job. But a man must have a profession. The late Duke of Norland gave him a path out of poverty, and he was happy to take it.

Charles found ways to enjoy his work. He liked to help people, he liked to be of service. There was something Christlike in that, surely, modeling one’s life after being of help to others. He could do without all the talk of fire and brimstone and the oppressive sense of moralizing. Instead, he wrote pretty sermons about ‘love thy neighbor’ and he worked for the support of his community. If they never noticed the way he weaved in Keats and Byron to his sermons, so much the better.

“How long will you stay?” Uncle Selby murmured.

Charles still watched the fire. “Until the end.”

Uncle Selby gave his hand a soft squeeze. “I am not frightened, you know. I’ve had a long while to prepare. And I am tired of feeling my body fail me. So bloody tired. I’m quite ready, Charles. I am at peace.”

Charles sniffed, tears burning his eyes once more. “Nothing has ever scared you, sir. You are a force of nature. Goliath incarnate.” His mouth quirked into a sad smile.

Uncle Selby held his gaze, seeing him in that way only a trusted mentor can. “You scare me, Charles,” he admitted. “Your wild heart. Your unbridled nature.”

Charles looked quickly away, dropping his uncle’s hand. So, they were not to go even an hour without facing this head-on. Charles was a fool to think otherwise. His uncle had always been singularly focused on reforming Charles from his passionate, wild ways.

“I am so grateful that you came to see me,” Uncle Selby went on. “How happy I would be to have you here unto the very end.”

Tears fell freely down Charles’s cheeks now. Regret, shame, frustration, anger. Each emotion wove itself in thick braid, a rope tied tight around his heart, squeezing until he was gasping for breath. “But?”

Uncle Selby sighed. “But Finchley is not safe for you, my darling boy.”

Charles turned sharply. “I will not repeat the same mistakes again.”

Why could his uncle not believe him? Why could he not trust him?

Uncle Selby shook his head. “You are still a young man, Charles. Your spirit is as untamed as the starlings that fly in the sky.”

“I want to be here,” Charles pressed, dropping to one knee at his uncle’s side and taking his hand with both of his own. “I want to be here for you. Only you have brought me home. You are the only one who matters to me.”

Uncle Selby still shook his head, his frown deepening. “He matters more. He is the one that calls you home.”

His uncle said the words so quietly, Charles could have imagined it, but he saw the old curate’s lips move. Pain lanced through his chest. He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “No,” he whispered. “No, never again. I am reformed. I have moved on, I swear it to you, sir—”

“No one ever moves beyond their first love, Charles.” Uncle Selby leaned forward, cupping his cheek with a cold hand. “If you stay, he will draw you in again. And I cannot protect you once I am gone. Please, Charles. I told you once to go. Do not make me do so again.”

“He means nothing to me, Uncle,” Charles rasped, begging his own heart to hear the words and believe them.

The old man stroked a hand through his curls. Charles leaned into the touch, eyes shut tight as his heart raced.

“You were always a terrible liar,” his uncle replied, his voice impossibly gentle. “But this isn’t about stealing a pie or pushing your brother into the river. This is you choosing to go down a path that will only lead to loss. Turn away from him. Turn away from here. Leave, Charles.”

“I cannot leave you,” Charles murmured. “Not like this.”

“You have come, and I am so very glad. But now, it is my dying wish that you go, and I am dying,” he added. “Your staying to watch it will change nothing.”

Charles took a shaky breath, glancing around the close confines of his uncle’s study. His resolve hardened. He would not be turned out of his own home again. He could resist. He could be here for his uncle and no one else.

He let out a breath through his pursed lips. “A fortnight,” he said. “I will stay a fortnight with you here. We will celebrate Christmas together, and I will help Molly get all your affairs in order. Besides, how much trouble can I really get into in two weeks?” he added, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

Uncle Selby sighed, leaning back in his chair, his shoulder drooping with fatigue. “Two weeks then,” he replied. “And then you will go.”

Charles nodded. “And then I will go.”